Blue arms extend pointed nails
in her direction. A menacing purr
emanates from the deep bowels of her breast.
Planetary plates shift silently
under their souls to avoid the trample
of destitution. His hand rakes
down her spine, skeletal bones
shivering in discourse. Her muscles
clench his waist tightly,
rolling in time with her pants of exertion.
You’re touching me. I’m -
not touching you. Their lungs tighten:
free air, swirling mischievously
around them like flamed leaves
drowning on air. His nails drive
into her skin, a jackhammer
demolishing that straw house of ’73.
Swinging with bondage to her gutted teeth,
eyes rutted hollow in the dusk. I’m not
touching you. She thrusts up
against his torso, pinning him a sheep
to the slaughter. Her fingers grip
his bony wrist in a vice
unbreakable.
Bending down, she hisses,
You’re touching me.
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